


I'm in Love with a Skeleton

by edy



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cancer, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-12
Updated: 2010-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The little brother's not supposed to die first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm in Love with a Skeleton

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: "cancer" by my chemical romance

He looks very sickly.

His once healthy glow of faint pale skin is now broken, fragile, and yet, still pale. His lips are thin and as white as his skin. They're dry no matter how long or often he brings his pink tongue across them. They're cracked now—little snippets of blood are dropping out of those fragile lips. The only thing that stands out from his pale face are his big, identical as mine, yet deeper, hazel eyes. They're bigger than usual, and they have a mixture of gray and purple shadows around the outline. The whites of his eyes are a fading yellow now.

His once-healthy sandy-brown hair is gone. His pale scalp is now visible since his hair had fallen out a couple months ago.

His whole body is pale, just like his face and head. He's really skinny—I mean, he was before, but now… it's just ridiculous. I shouldn't be saying that. It's not his fault he lost all this weight.

It's not his fault he got cancer, no matter how much he tries to say it is.

My eyes travel down his thin body, seeing how each and every one of his bones is visible. It's like he's a skeleton.

I feel like crying.

Each one of his fingers are extremely thin now—thinner than usual. I can see his joints move as he raises a bony finger to invite me into his hospital room. I follow his orders, and the awful smell of decaying flesh, cleaning materials, and vomit hit my nostrils. I don't gag. He has to live in this filth, I just stepped into it.

I go over to his bed side and stand over him, watching him quiver and shake from the cold. I look around the room. Where's his blanket? Didn't they give him one? As I continue to look around the room, I find that they haven't provided him with the piece of fabric—those heartless people.

I step closer to his bed and sit down beside him on the unnaturally clean hospital bed. I hold out my arms. "Come here, baby brother."

His ghastly eyes waver over me, and he slowly picks himself up to move his bony body over to mine, into my lap.

I begin to wonder how he can even walk. His legs are so thin—they should be property of a cripple. Does he have to travel around in a wheelchair? But another glance around the room informs me that he has to walk to get around. I look down at him as he winces to get himself up in my lap. I fear that he has to stay in this bed all day long, seeing how he's in pain when he crawls barely a foot.

He finally manages to get up in my lap. He wraps his thin legs around my waist and his pale arms around my neck. I carefully put my hands on his sides, trying so hard not to pull back from terror—the terror from how I can feel every rib poke out his skin. But I don't pull away. Instead, I hold him closer, pressing his fragile chest to mine. I feel like an African mother carrying her small child.

I stare at him as he closes his eyes and starts to shake and tremble even more. I'm afraid he might collapse at any moment when I'm holding him and feeling his rib cage move around as he tries to breathe like a normal being again.

But again, I fear that he might not be considered _normal_ anymore.

I frown as I feel him try and get himself comfortable, even if I think he might never be fully comfortable again in his life, since he's like this. I feel his body shift inside his extremely oversized, ghost-white, and sky-blue hospital gown. I tighten my grip on his sides, not enough to hurt him, but enough for him to carefully move around and be able to press even closer to me.

I watch as he sighs deeply and shivers frighteningly. He moves his arms away from my neck to be around my shoulders. He groans and moves his arms from my shoulders, putting them to his sides. He quakes violently, and my eyes widen as I protectively wrap my arms around and hold him close to my chest.

He lays his head on my shoulder and looks up at me. "Gee…" he says quietly, his voice shaking.

I smile with pity when I place my hand on his cheek, stroking it with my thumb. "Yes, Mikes?" I ask softly, using his nickname for this moment.

He cuddles up to me and shivers once more. "I'm so cold, Gee. Do something, please."

I don't know what I can do, though. So, I just hold him tighter and start to slowly rub at his back in small, soothing circles. He keeps his head on my shoulder, eyes closed, breathing deeply. "Gee…" he softly begins. He swallows. I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down. "I, I don't think I can hold on any longer."

My eyes widen, and I hold onto him more. I shut my eyes and wish he hadn't told me that. In, out. Inhale, exhale. "Why, Mikey?"

His small shoulders go up, and then down. Even that, in itself, is hard for him to do. "I just… can't fight it. I'm… too tired." I hear him swallow again, and it's too painful.

I open my eyes and manage to stare at him. "Mikey," I begin, moving my hands to his shoulder. I lightly squeeze them for support. Despite the slight pressure, he still winces, and I feel awful. "You have to fight it. You just have to. I can't bear to see you go." Finally, the tears break through and roll down my cheeks. I don't wipe them away. "You just can't die, Mikey," I say after a few minutes. "The little brother's not supposed to die first."

I manage to get a laugh and a smile out of him. I smile and laugh along with him. This is good. Then, he places his frail hands to the back of my head, rubbing at my scalp, feeling my long black hair. He's jealous. "I'm tired, Gerard. I want to sleep."

I nod and, I don't know why, but I smile. "Don't worry, Mikey," I say, settling down, right next to him, in the hospital bed. I peel off my warm, black leather jacket and give it to Mikey. He uses it as a blanket, and he uses my chest as a pillow.

He shivers and cuddles up close to me. His hands are fists. I hold them.

He laces our fingers together. We are holding hands.

I try to sleep. I close my eyes, but he can't stop shivering. "Is there something wrong, Mikey?" I ask, pressing him against my chest.

He shakes his head. "No… there's nothing wrong. I just…" He drifts off. He shakes his head. "Your heartbeat's like a lullaby to me." He smiles. I smile back.

"That's good. You need to get some sleep anyway." I close my eyes again, but end up opening them when I feel him stir. He can't keep still. "What's wrong, Mikes?"

He stares at me. I stare back.

We're kissing. It's soft. He pulls back, wincing and shivering again. "Gee…"

I hug him. "I'm here, Mikey. I'm here. You don't have to worry now."

He calms down a bit, but he continues to shiver. "Gerard…" he says.

I rub his arms. "Yes, Mikey?"

He hesitates. "Will you be here when I wake up?"

I can't believe he would ask me that when I need the confirmation from him, now more than ever. I answer him, though. "Of course I will, Mikey. I promise."

He relaxes. "That's good," he says, trailing off and yawning.

I chuckle. "It is. Now, get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake." I rub at his side. I nibble on my lip. "I love you, Mikey."

But I don't get a response.

Mikey's already asleep.

*

Mikey doesn't wake up the next morning.

I find him cold beside me when I wake. Funny thing is that we are still holding hands, and I'm not crying. I should be, though, because my one and only little brother just… died in my arms, and I'm not even feeling one bit of sympathy. Why?

I look down at his body, still near mine. He's probably just sleeping—he was cold when he fell asleep, and he's still cold, so…

I bite my lip and raise up in the bed as I press my hand to his cheek. I stroke the skin, frowning.

His skin's hard, cold, and… dead.

As I look down at him and shake my head back and forth and cry out, tears are starting to fall from my eyes. I wrap my arms around his frail body and hold him close to my chest, still holding his hand.

I throw my head back and let out a loud cry. "Mikey!" I choke out, looking down at him. "Mikey! You can't be dead!"

Nurses and doctors enter the room, shocked looks on their faces. This shouldn't be real. Two nurses—one female and one male—come over to the bed side and grab my shoulders, pinning me to the bed. This can't be real. Two male nurses come up to the bed, then, and grab hold of Mikey's body, trying to pull him away from me. This isn't real.

My eyes widen, and I try to fight, try to push the nurses from me. "No! You can't have him, you bastards! You can't have my baby brother!"

I'm too weak.

They force me to watch as they pile his body into a body bag and roll him away on a gurney. The last thing I touch on him is his hand. It's cold.

I fall on the bed, continuing to cry out my eyes, continuing to die a little each minute I don't have Mikey sitting in front of me with a big smile on his face.

And that's exactly what I do.

*

I am murdered the very next day by a little thing called _depression_.


End file.
